Before I can respond—before I can figure out if I even want to respond—she turns and disappears into the kitchen. A moment later, I hear water running, dishes clattering. The sounds of someone cleaning up, occupying their hands so they don't have to think.
I know that strategy well. I invented that strategy.
I head in to the bedroom, looking out at the darkness beyond the windows. Tomorrow there will be lawyers and conditions and a stranger who knows more about my own family than I do.
But tonight, I just stand in the dark and let myself feel it: the grief, the anger, the strange hollow ache of coming home to a place I've never been.
Her ghost.
All my life, I've been haunting a place I couldn't see. And now I'm finally here, and the woman who wanted me is gone, and the only thing she left behind is half a house and a stranger in the kitchen and questions I don't know how to ask.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window and breathe.
Tomorrow, I'll be strong. Tomorrow, I'll make lists and plans and charts.
Tonight, I just let myself be lost.
4
CAT
I wake to the smell of coffee I didn't make, which means she's already up.
For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom I claimed a week ago, where I used to sleep on visits when I was young enough that everything felt like an adventure and old enough to want my own space.
Iris Beaumont-Clark is making coffee. In Grand-mère's kitchen. In my kitchen.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and remind myself that technically, legally, it's also her kitchen. Has been since the moment Grand-mère died. The paperwork just hasn't caught up yet.
But it doesn't feel like hers. It feels like mine. It feels like the only place I've ever truly belonged, and now I have to share it with a woman who looks at me like I'm something she's trying to calculate.
I get up, pull on yesterday's jeans and a clean-ish t-shirt, and go to the kitchen to face the inevitable.
The kitchen is exactly as I left it last night—clean, organized, everything in its proper place—except for Iris standing at the counter with a mug of coffee cradled in both hands. She's already dressed, because of course she is. Tailored trousers, a silk blouse, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that not a single strand would dare escape.
She looks like she's about to give a presentation. At seven-thirty in the morning. In a farmhouse in Provence.
It should look ridiculous. It does look ridiculous. It also does something warm and inconvenient at the back of my ribs that I decide, firmly, not to think about.
"There's coffee," she says without turning around. "I wasn't sure how you take it, so I just made a pot."
"Black's fine. Thanks."
I move around her to the cupboard, very aware of how much space she's taking up despite not actually being particularly large. It's the presence, I think. The way she holds herself, like she's bracing for something. Like she's always bracing for something.
"Did you sleep?" I ask, because the silence feels too heavy.
"Some." She takes a sip of her coffee. "The jet lag is... real."
"Yeah, it's rough crossing the Atlantic. I usually feel human again by day three."
She makes a small sound that might be acknowledgment or might be skepticism. Hard to tell with her.
I pour my coffee and lean against the counter, watching her. In the morning light from the kitchen windows, I can see theshadows under her eyes, the tiny lines of tension around her mouth. She's beautiful but she's also exhausted in a way that goes deeper than jet lag.
"The lawyer's expecting us at ten," I say. "It's about a twenty-minute drive. We could take one car if you want—save on petrol."
"Fine."
